Prima
She listens to the world move
[beat,
two-three,
beat]
like old people listen to talk radio.
And flutters in her own world,
wild thing,
she programs an image to her brain:
reality
it crashes.
Much like a ballet,
she falls when she fears the music is stopping.
[pressing her cheek against her knee]
Then valiantly she jumps and spins,
[twirling
two, three,
spinning
two, three]
But eventually, all music ends;
fallen on the stage
alone.
If you connected with this poem, the comments section is for you to share your thoughts and/or experiences. I am grateful to anyone that chooses to share – I make that space for you. Thank you for taking the time to read this poem today.
